


All That Was, Is. (And Will Be Again.)

by rousemymind



Category: Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: Death, Drabble, Gen, Inspired by The Accidental Warlord and His Pack Series - inexplicifics, Kinda, Rebirth, Souls, Witchers Have Feelings (The Witcher), Witchers deserve nice things, as a general concept, because MAGIC and also because i say so, but nothing explicit, gratuitous abuse of grammar, mentioned child death, mentioned death, no beta we die like stregobor fucking should have, not as sad as it sounds I swear, souls reborn, uhhh this is my first published anything so maybe be gentle please
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-18
Updated: 2020-08-18
Packaged: 2021-03-06 02:22:17
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 551
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25962019
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rousemymind/pseuds/rousemymind
Summary: Witchers walk far and see much. They know death; they hold it in their hands and bear it on their backs (they grieve for those it has stolen).But death is not the ultimate end, not really.
Comments: 17
Kudos: 215
Collections: Inspired by inexplicific Accidental Warlord AU





	All That Was, Is. (And Will Be Again.)

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [Home is a Place to Remember.](https://archiveofourown.org/works/25795753) by [TicciJack](https://archiveofourown.org/users/TicciJack/pseuds/TicciJack). 
  * Inspired by [With a Conquering Air](https://archiveofourown.org/works/23273713) by [inexplicifics](https://archiveofourown.org/users/inexplicifics/pseuds/inexplicifics). 



> Inspired, in a general sense, by inexplicifics Warlord AU and the sandbox that has sprung from it. More specifically, inspired by TicciJack's amazing Kaer Morhen genius loci fic. 
> 
> Warnings for a couple of vague and brief mentions of child death, though nothing explicit. And for death as a general concept.
> 
> I should never be trusted alone with commas, semicolons, or dashes. And I'm not sorry about it either.

Witchers walk far and see much. They know death; they hold it in their hands and bear it on their backs (they grieve for those it has stolen). And given half a chance, Witchers live a long, long while.

Long enough to notice the patterns of the world, the shifts in eras and seasons, the reflections of the past in the present. Perhaps it is a peculiarity of time, or perhaps it is some purposeful divine act. Either way, if one walks long enough - far enough - and keeps a weather eye open, one notices the echoes of what came before existing in the now. The same laughter heard from two separate throats nearly a century apart. The shape of backlit branches against an evening sky repeated 30 years later and hundreds of miles away. Songs long lost to time, hummed unthinkingly in the grey light of dawn. 

Oh yes, Witchers walk far and see much (a Witcher knows death; they hold it in their hands and bear it on their backs. The grieve for those it has stolen.) They live a long while and know the echoes of life. They have seen history repeat itself, love and loss, and love again. Cycled endlessly through the years. Fallen foes mirrored in the turn of another head, old friends in the bend of a young brow, a lost lover's smile etched onto a new face. And some few lucky ones have even caught the eyes of a long dead brother gazing back from across a crowded market square, irises as untouched by gold as they were before the too small pyre bore them away. In this time, old enough to cling to their mother's skirts but with the steady-sure gaze of those still nearly babes at the breast. Open as they are to the subtle magic of creation, the taste of that mysterious place before birth still clinging to their tongue, a young heart recognizes an unspoken shared history - an instinct of knowing and being known.

It is true that Witchers walk far and see much. And it is true that a Witcher knows death; they hold it in their hands and bear it on their backs. They know it like a lover and mother and a constant companion. (They grieve for those it has stolen. They grieve, and they grieve, and they grieve.) But even a Witcher must remember that death is not the final end of a thing, only an altering of its state. This is true for comets and for trees. For kings and for thieves. For stone, and stream, and endless rolling hills. And certainly for beloved little brothers, bodies lost to time or teeth or the tall grasses. For what is a body but the stuff of earth and stars, the vessel of a soul? And what is a soul but the memories that make it sing? And what are memories but energy, that building block of all things? Boundless, deathless energy. Never created or destroyed- merely changed, reused, and reborn anew.

(Oh, it is true that Witchers walk far and see much. They know death; they hold it in their hands and bear it on their backs. But so too do they know life, for they hold it in their hearts and bear it in their souls.)


End file.
